


i'm put to mind of all that i want to be

by Swamp_Cat



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: M/M, Multi, can you tell im slowly losing my mind?, when i die bury me with this fic and nothing else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swamp_Cat/pseuds/Swamp_Cat
Summary: Mozart would have been staring at Salieri all night long were it not for the fact the somber man was already looking at him.





	i'm put to mind of all that i want to be

**Author's Note:**

> i dont like actually know anything about music or composition so theres a looooot of bullshit in here. eat up babes!

Constanze was calling his name, bright laughter in her voice. “Alright, alright!” he called back, laughing at her, with her. With a wide flourish, he completed his thoughts on the page, leaping from his seat with the joy it gave him, spinning all the way to her. She caught him, smacking his arm, crowing “mercy, mercy!”.

“And what was this one for, that’s gotten you into this state?” she chided. 

“Ah, my love!” Mozart called, eyes to the heavens and hand on his heart. “I had the most titillating dream last night, imagine: Maestro Salieri, on the stand, conducting the most rousing music I have ever heard, and in naught but his underclothes! My, even watching the robustness of form had me-“ 

Just as Mozart was in the midst of performing a  _ very  _ lewd gesture, there was a distinct noise of a throat being cleared. Mozart and Constanze looked up at the noise and immediately burst into wild laughter, for the librettist Lorenzo had walked in on the scene, and surely heard far too much. The man wore a small and wicked smirk. 

“While I am only ever overjoyed to hear of your inspiration, Maestro, surely it can wait until after we have dined?” A delicate eyebrow was raised. In equal solemnity, Mozart bowed. 

“Inspiration surely waits for nothing, Da Ponte. After all, wouldn’t you much rather we were late than I become rather too  _ inspired  _ at this most auspicious dinner?” Constanze tittered behind him. Lorenzo merely rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers in a bringing-to-heel motion. 

“Come now, Mozart. Although I am sure you have much to say on the contrary, inspiration will wait for the prince, at least on this occasion. Unless of course you wish to humiliate both yourself  _ and  _ Antonio?” 

Mozart pulled a face, as he would’ve very much liked to say yes, were it not for that fact that he and everyone in court was aware of the latest scalding disdain Salieri had gifted him, towards his most recent antics. 

Mozart thought, you had to be fair, it was only one kiss. 

Constanze snorted at him, for she could always read his mind, and was usually amused by the contents. 

Mozart lovingly sighed at his friends. “Onward, then. Whoever succeeds in making me behave will be showered in affection upon our - ow!” Lorenzo swatted his ass while Constanze danced with mirth, before taking both their arms and dancing them out the doors. 

_

  
  


Mozart would have been staring at Salieri all night long were it not for the fact the somber man was already looking at him. 

Mozart was surprised and delighted in equal turns, the feelings fizzing and bubbling in his chest, demanding expression, quick furtive whispers shared with Constanze and Nannerl, who was also there, not nearly enough. 

Each time the choirmaster was caught, he looked away, and as his first game was thwarted Wolfgang now took obscene joy in holding his gaze for as long as possible. 

Oh, how Salieri could blush. It was very nearly inappropriate. Or in the least, it was about to make Mozart do something very inappropriate indeed. 

“ _ My god,”  _ Constanze whispered to him at some point in the night. “ _ I feel myself going red just looking at him.”  _ Mozart could only agree. 

The night had stretched on, everyone growing drunker and looser, howls of laughter like coyote screams echoing and candlelight flickering up phantoms upon the walls. Shadows deepened and the world turned gold. Constanze had danced herself thin enough to float to the ceiling, and a dream had entered her eyes. “ _ Oh, something with clouds,”  _ she told when asked. “ _ Something with stars and blue and hair like clouds.”  _ She could not be reasoned with in a state like this and Mozart loved her dearly. He watched with a fondness so deep it escaped the flesh as she, flushed and beautiful, touched the voluminous wig of a countess who appeared rightfully as infatuated with her as if she were looking at the earth from the moon. 

Constanze said something, and the countess smiled, and Mozart smiled. He felt a presence appear at his side, the warmth of another body. 

“She looks like a sky,” he said, before turning his head to them. 

The breath was robbed from his chest by the arresting gaze of Salieri himself. Mozart smiled, and abruptly felt as though he would cry, as though in this presence he could cry. 

Salieris hands were clasped in front of him, as they often were. Mozart had noticed, in his careful watching, how Salieri kept himself tucked inwards with such force, and often his hands were moving, how even when clasped behind his back they would flex and tug and wander. They were such wonderful, curious things. He had begun looking to the man’s hands when he truly wanted to see a reaction. 

In that moment, his thumbs were pressed together, and the dark lacquer shone purple in the light of the candles. 

When their eyes met again, it felt like discourse took place. A speaking look. How one person could be so loud, and all at once so still, Mozart did not know. How he hoped to. Sometimes it looked as though it hurt. One hated to presume anything about another, but Mozart took much daring in presuming that hidden somewhere on his person was an essential lacing that, when finally unraveled, would reveal a most marvelous cacophony of sound. He thought of last nights dream again and smiled, dragging his gaze across that dark, still face, drinking it in. What of wine when there was something as heady as this? 

“I,” Salieri said, countenance seeming to stutter. His eyes were low on Mozart’s face as though drawn somewhere. “I wanted to speak to you about the aria. Today.” 

Mozart giggles at him, now turning bodily, flinging his arms open. He does another turn for good measure, because the feeling calls for it. “What about it, maestro? What’s anything compared to everything?” He dares Salieri to balk at his upturned chin, his obnoxious teasing, he dares him not to. The silly man leans towards him, slightly, as though his body is making concessions his face does not. Now his hands are behind his back, of which Mozart dispairs. 

There is a pause between them that seems to drag itself dry. Salieris eyes glitter, and finally, he says “Must I be mocked at  _ every _ turn, Mozart? It is a winding road.” 

The words are confrontational but the softness of them, the curling of his mouth that cannot quite be called a smile, those are teasing. Mozart tuts and shakes a finger, recognizing the resignation to nonsense. “I never mock. There is no one below me for which to do so to, and besides you would never allow me insult. Think of it, ah, as merely- an invitation.” 

“Invitation? To what on earth are you inviting me to?”

Oh, that makes him shiver. He smiles. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know.” With that, he turned and began to skip away, twisting himself to call after Salieri- “Why don’t you come find out!” 

_

Breathless, giggling, and entirely too excited, Mozart crashed into the first room which seemed dark enough to be unoccupied and got to work correcting that. Thankfully there were half spent candelabras about, and even a harpsichord. 

In the quiet coolness, he let the tide of agitation ebb, knowing how it might frighten Salieri away. In a usual situation he would not care for anyone who could be frightened away, but now, he was frightened by just how much he did. 

He hushed himself when he heard the footsteps clicking their way down the hall. 

Soon, Salieri’s head peeked through, looking first to the other side of the room before seeing Mozart where he was, hand on the table, grin threatening to tear his face in two. 

“You came.” 

Exasperation flooded his face. “Mozart-“

“I know, I know. The aria.” He sat himself down on the harpsichord bench, ankles tangled up, hands in his lap, and again much too eager. “What is it, then?” 

Salieri merely sighed. “Something struck me, and Lorenzo convinced me to impart it upon you. Would you begin from the top?” he gestured to the harpsichord. Mozart bowed his head and turned to do just that, thoughts spinning through his mind faster than they could be registered. The aria spun itself out beneath his hands, like spider silk, thickening tangents and lines into webs which cast themselves onto a dark sky. 

Slowly, it crawled up into the first crescendo, and Mozart curled his toes because this part always- 

Salieri interrupted him. “Ah- there. Just- just there.” 

Mozart stopped, looking to his contrarian with a bit of wonderment. Salieri did not meet his gaze, but instead bent down, picking up with near precision where Mozart had stopped, continuing it. Only this time, rather than allowing the tautly spun climb to fracture and burst, as it’s composer had deigned, he riffed it in two with a near agonizing sweetness, bitter disharmonies traveling in two directions, each somehow matching the other. Two separate tangents that fell upon his ears like pomegranate seeds, sharp and sweet and so much like blood.

It was as if Salieri had reached into Mozart’s composition with both hands and, like a weaver, found the load bearing threads. As though he could see the fabric of his music and decided to show him how he could dye the cloth. 

It was so sweet, like a child showing off before discovering vanity, before it occurred to them to compete. 

Salieri paused in his playing and Mozart felt himself lurch as though in a carriage come to an abrupt stop. 

“Genius,” he said, only it came out hoarse like a whisper. A laugh escaped him. “Genius! Salieri-“ He wanted to leap to his feet, to spin this impossible man into a waltz, to turn him upside down. 

In the end, he could only look. 

He saw his eyes and saw how they were open. Pupils blown in the halflight, hair askew in his face, mouth ever so slightly parted. So sweet, so impossibly gentle, everything about him pulling Wolfgang towards him, until it felt as though it would hurt him not to go. 

He thought to himself, in a moment of rare clarity,  _ for the love of god, do not fumble this.  _

All too fast and all too slow, (agonizingly slow, heart racingly fast), Mozart put his hand over Salieris where it rested on the harpsichord. His fingertips slid beneath the wide sleeves, brushed the top of his wrist. It was all much too rising for such innocence and he swallowed. Salieris hand was warm. 

“I would be honored to accept your alteration. Have you- written it out?” But god, he could scarcely speak through the adoration! 

“Yes,” Salieri responded, breathless, and  _ good god he wrote it down and everything.  _ Mozart couldn’t help himself. He practically shrieked with joy, throwing his head back, hands high. 

“Ah, Maestro! You have come to your senses at last!” 

_

  
  


Although he was certain Mozart had no memory of it, while he was ill, Salieri had once washed his hair. 

Constanze had been, as the only member of her household, stricken with responsibility and grief. They had no income with which to support staff, and no one to come as quick as Wolfgang could flag. Nannerl was strewn across the country, coming as fast as she could, Madame Weber shamed and cruel with it. 

Salieri had come when he’d heard, sick with guilt. He had not left his chambers for a fortnight. All he had lied for crumbling with his neglect and yet still, not able to leave him be. 

Rosenberg had come to him to jape and moan at the Wolfgang’s misfortune. It disgusted him. The pathetic fool was horrific in his parody of death, a death that seemed all too clear on the horizon. 

Salieri had endured barely a moment of it before casting him from his rooms and then, methodically, casting himself from his rooms, cleaning himself, paying careful numb attention and then leaving as swiftly as though the devil himself were at his heels. 

Constanze had smacked him so hard that his ears had rung, although he was sure she hadn’t realized. She had swiftly risen very high in his esteem. And indeed he thought himself to be cowed into leaving, considering taking a shortcut over a bridge and into the river for he saw no use in returning to where he had been. He’d understood it first, then. If he was not welcome there he would not be welcome anywhere. His own soul would forbid it. 

It was then that Mozart had called his name. 

He’d thought he’d weep at the sight of him. 

A cold fist of dread had closed over his heart at his words, horrible prophecies, a madness that wore the mask of reason. It infuriated and vexed him, his mind reaching a fever pitch of denial. Constanze despaired, Mozart turned his head, the cacophony rose, and Salieri had had enough. He had snapped at him when he opened his mouth to deny Constanzes warning words yet again. 

“You would well listen to your wife,” he had said. “For when you recover I fear she would kill you herself, and I would have to be noble for once in my life and allow her.” 

They had both quieted down at that. 

Salieri nearly laughed out loud in surprise at himself. 

When it no longer appeared as though he would be a victim of her vengeance, he had asked Constanze as softly as he could manage whether there were any tasks he could do, mightily ignoring Mozart’s glazed stare while she wrangled him tenderly into his bed. 

First she had made him deliver the fouled linens to the launderer. Then, when she had to make food, he was to watch Mozart and ensure he never rose out of bed, not even for composing, which was an honest agony to enforce. It was clear he genuinely believed himself to be on his last hours. 

Terribly, it seemed so from the outside too. 

Constanze brought him cold cloths to press against his forehead, and with trembling hands he did. She brought broth to feed him and with his heresy in his heart, he did. 

They flung the shutters open, Salieri stripped to his waistcoat, cravat foregone entirely and perhaps even sacrificed to the ever growing pile of cold cloths. It had become late. 

Mozart cried in pain. He writhed with fever. Salieri thought, one thing, if I could fix one thing in this blasphemous world, let me fix this. 

Constanze brought him water and soap. 

Salieri, feeling as he had not since he was nothing but 11 years old and squalid, kneeled at the bedside with the basin. Constanze sat on the bed with her skirts rucked up, as if they had drifted out of the world and these sorts of things no longer had meaning. He rolled up his sleeves, scars terrible, but they had drifted out of the world. These things no longer had those meanings. 

Gently, he had coaxed Mozart to lay with his head hanging off the edge of the mattress. Oh, how he had been laughed at that night. No reason would sway him, so Salieri and Constanze had played embarrassing games in order to convince the feverish man it was right, as though they were children. Mozart had laughed himself breathless, and they had laughed too, but it was the kind that brought tears.

Constanze stroked Wolfgang’s chest, made nonsense noises at him. Antonio began by washing his face. All of the makeup, sweat, tears of pain and confusion. Salieri wiped this away and wrung it out, repetitive, until even Mozart was silent and his face was lax. Then, using a tin cup to pour the water, he soaked his hair. Rubbed soap in until it sudded, then Constanze had to pour the basin out and fetch more water since he had not thought to before hand. He rinsed Mozart's hair with the clean water. He pulled out tangles, remembering when his hair had first become long enough to require grooming, how he had hated it. Told Mozart so. Scolded him for the mats he found. Constanze had laughed and he had smiled. 

When it was finally done, the world seemed to have become slow, a tired slow, a worn slow. Impossible things became mundane, the mundane surreal. Salieri pressed the moisture out of Mozart’s hair. He held his head with his hands, Constanze his shoulders, guided him back into bed with his clean sheets, clean pillows. He told Mozart, told them both, how everything was clean, now, how they had dragged themselves over a peak and now everything in the valley was clean. 

He fell asleep there on the floor with his head pressed to the mattress. 

_

  
  


“You are all the largest collection of fools since the Catholic church.” 

Wolfgang smiled dreamily at Lorenzo. Constanze mouthed his neck shamelessly. Da Ponte just sighed. 

_

  
  


“I just ... feel like it needs to be bigger.” 

The early morning song of performers bustling about and stage hands becoming overcome by props sang itself, making this Saturday seem a light yellow to Wolfgang. The set painter at his side looked full onto his face, no longer making any attempt to dissemble her utter despair. 

“Bigger?” 

Before Mozart could even take his hand off his chin from where it was thoughtfully posed, a voice called out. 

“Maestro! A word, please?”

It was Antonio’s deep tenor. Mozart turned to the direction of the noise and grinned, striding toward him with long steps. 

“Yes, mon amour?” he said, throatily. Salieri maintained his stiff necked-ness, but the wryness contained in his gaze was simply astounding. 

“Leave Senora Patrizia alone. This is not the only opera in her charge, and  _ you _ are not the only composer in commission. And come with me.” He was turning before Mozart could even whinge. Entirely besotted, he followed, and tried not to look as though struck by cupid. He almost certainly failed. 

  
  


_

  
  


Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was terrifying, because he seemed to believe Salieri to be of the utmost control of himself and so therefore within his wiles to have absolutely no control at all and if Salieri was forced to hold this much of the burden something was going to happen and it was going to happen very soon. Because Salieri did not have any control over himself at all. 

Mozart says  _ mon amour  _ and Salieri thinks  _ one more time and I will be ravishing you in front of the Holy Roman Emperor and all the world and there will be nothing anyone can do about it.  _

And now he was inviting the horrible, terrible, obscene thing into a room without anybody but him in it. To talk about his music. 

Lord preserve him. 

_

  
  


Mozart was in raptures. He would sit in his chair to write, become distracted, and find himself halfway across the house before somebody caught him. Usually, Constanze, who of course was no help at all and would distract him delightfully further. Lorenzo was in faux agonies, the staff in honest distress (for strangeness came tenfold if ever someone at home was in  _ raptures)  _ and all of high society with one eye peeled. Mozart thought they assumed a mistress, somehow delivered by Salieri. As if they were sneaking away to discuss the indecent logistics of women. 

But no, nothing carnal had taken place. Not in the flesh. 

_ Oh,  _ Mozart sighed, in bed at a devils hour with Constanze and their sweet whispers _. His mind. He sees music like a shroud, a great tapestry. And he has made it his life’s mission to master thread.  _ Constanze would laugh, tickle him, make him shriek until he told her what it sounded like, what they had written that day. Sometimes he would sing it to her. 

Sometimes, he would say,  _ Here _ . _ I’ll show you. Let me show you.  _

_

  
  


“It makes infinite sense,” Mozart said, eyes on the paper. “See, this lift here, the numbers match every down step,  _ 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4.  _ It’s only slower, and higher, and, and reversed.” 

Antonio nodded. “Yes, yes, I see. But I see it because I know it, I’ve counted it. I say another here, going up, faced on either side with the down steps. To extrapolate the similarities to the ear.” 

Mozart chewed his lip and nodded, eyes flipping through the notes a mile a minute. Salieri become distracted by noticing the gap in his two front teeth. And the pinkness of his lower lip. 

“Oh!” Mozart shouted out. Salieri jumped. “For this one”- he circled his fellow composers most recent addition with his finger. “Ah, ah, layer the down step, and then faster and faster approaching- and the crescendo will still be as it is, slower, so the down steps will be double timing.” 

“Yes!” 

Salieri was surprised still, somehow, by the incredible genius of it. “Of course, yes.” 

They stood, for a moment, simply looking at each other. 

Salieri forgot all things in this moment. He forgot time. He forgot his body and all it’s cursed awkwardness. He forgot that he was meant to meet Signora Aloysia for a voice lesson over seven minutes ago. Wolfgang was smiling, and he forgot not to smile back. 

Then he remembered. 

“Oh,” he fumbled, turning away from the burning star who tempted him more and more each day to just go blind. “I must- Aloysia.” 

“Ah!” Mozart did a little hop, a little bow. _ Disgusting, _ Salieri thought, in an attempt botched from the beginning, to drown out the fondness. “Of course, of course! I’ve distracted you! Go, go!” 

As he scuttled through the hallways like an embarrassed bug, Salieri thought he had never felt so light and so heavy at once. 

_

  
  


A bright light stabbed through the curtains and awakened searing pain, dragging Antonio into hateful consciousness . He groaned. Hatefully. The sunlight, which he had never known himself to prefer in the first place, seems to become pressure incarnate against his eyelids. 

It was only a fortnight passed since his distracted lesson with Signorina Aloysia. He had not managed to work with Mozart again since, and had thought of the music every day, a practically unprecedented outpouring of thoughts and ideas and amendments scouring his notes and journals. Where in contrast he usually had to fight himself for the smallest details, they now forced their way out of him themselves, and demanded his audience. 

There was a noise like a servant dropping something in the hallway, and Salieri sucked in air at the stabbing pain like daggers in his ears. Immediately, the still-exhausted man knows this will not be a good day. 

When he arrives at the salon he is expected at that evening, the pain in his head has mounted to an incessant pounding. Every noise hurts him in what he assumes is the world's idea of ironic humor. It has been months since he had been brought so low by one of these episodes, and it curdles his stomach, for it to come back in such bold force without warning. 

Oh, and Wolfgang is there with his wife. Salieri sighs miserably. He’s not yet had the honor of watching the imminent collision of migraine vs. Mozart but he’s sure it will be fantastical. Like fireworks, made of pain. 

As usual, he manages to greet the host and then promptly hide for at least 45 drudgerly minutes. Excused from the thick of the crowd, his head is not so bad, but it is not so good either. The pain lays like grey sludge over every sensation. There is a cup of wine in his hand but he dares not drink. No, he’d learnt that lesson already. 

It had not passed an hour before Constanze saw him and began slapping Wolfgang’s chest rapidly, and completely indiscreetly. Salieri felt embarrassed and averted his gaze. Oh, god, he hoped he didn’t look too rude. 

It was only by some miracle that Mozart didn’t simply call out his rival composers name loud enough to alert every socialite present. Rather, the couple extricated themselves from their group, and came to Antonio themselves. To where he was hiding between a large palm and table. His face burned, not quite at being caught, (for he’d resigned to that long ago and it was practically expected of him at this point) but to be so targeted by such… figures. 

Constanze was wearing quite the dress. There was so much shoulder visible. Mozart was glittering, and not just figuratively. It was all over his face. And, oh dear, all over Constanzes exposed decolletage. 

“Maestro,” she addressed him, smiling. Salieri smiled back through the pain of the noise. He probably looked like he had to sneeze. She touched his shoulder, surprisingly firm with her squeeze. Antonio felt severely flustered and that perhaps he should’ve been speaking by now. For the life of him, he could not figure about what. It didn’t seem appropriate to just pick off on some professional tangent with Mozart while she was there, but god, what in all hells else was he supposed to do? 

“Oh, I know,” Mozart said, conspiratorially. In his wretched confusion Salieri thought for a horrible moment that he had heard his thoughts. Mozart looked about the room with a sparkle in his eye, as if they were all in on the same joke, hiding in the corner together. “It is a terribly dull group. I do not blame you for hiding from uh…  _ Monsieur Aumann.  _ I’m half torn between offering him a handkerchief and referencing him to a facialist, although I fear the nasal tone is truly a symptom of personality.” 

Salieri, who had run into the unfortunate man himself, was much too off his guard not to snort ungainly at this. Which was a bad sign. He had to get away from these people before something truly life ruining let slip. 

Constanze laughed, an adorable sound honestly no more lovely or bell like than an aggravated swan. It was also punctuated by incredibly distracting pain. Salieri was aware that his eyes fluttered shut, but not that he swayed where he stood, like a reed in the wind, upright. The married couple were watching him with an uncannily similar furrow betwixt their brows when his eyes opened. This inspired a uniquely suffocating panic in him. 

“I must apologize,” he said, feeling as though he were in the type of dream both where some completely unthought of passing acquaintance was inexplicably a lover, and the kind where you appeared naked in increasingly public situations. “I - have an affliction.” Oh, god, that was not what he meant to say at all. Oh, christ, the furrow deepened. He did wonder sometimes if lovers could not share thoughts. He chuckled, desperate to shirk the attention. “It is just a headache. Exasperated by noise and light.” This did not ease the concern. “The physician assures that it is of the mind, no physical cause. I am fine, of course.” 

“How long have you been here?” Constanze asked, which is not what he expected at all. Her voice was also pitched much softer. Salieri calculated. “No more than an hour?” 

She seemed satisfied by this and clucks, suddenly looping her arm through his elbow. Wolfgang even takes the wine cup from his hand and puts it on the table, both things happening at once, so he cannot really decide to react to either before they are swooping him from his corner entirely. Very nearly he panics that they are, god forbid, about to introduce him to someone, but then he sees that they are headed straight towards their host for that night. 

Wolfgang calls the man's name. “My friend, we must retire! And we are stealing Maestro Salieri from you, for none of you deserve him.” Salieri watches it all from very far away. 

Their host laughs from in between the two young women he converses with, no more than a faux dismissive hand wave and jovial goodbye spared before they are heading out of the door. Antonio feels a bit nauseous from the conflicting warmth and panic he feels towards these people. Oh, and the pain. The pain does not help. 

It is still much to bright outside, and were it not for both of his arms firmly captured by his rescuing devils (angels?) he would probably fall. 

“Ugh,” he says. Perhaps Wolfgang hushes him, perhaps Constanze. All he knows is that he must get his wits about him before somebody helps him into a carriage. It simply must not go that far. 

It may or may not go that far, for when he comes back to his senses, he is in a moving carriage and they are somehow all squeezed into the same bench. He feels almost unbearably warm the moment he realizes. It’s such a silly thing to do, like they’re three nervous teenagers about to debut in society. The thought makes him smile. Tenderly, he touches his temples. Constanze makes sympathetic noises at him again. 

The pain remains at a constant thrum for the entire ride. Salieri keeps his eyes shut tight, hands fists over his knees. He feels impossibly embarrassed. And embarrassed for being embarrassed. Despite the tension in his body making the pain in his head worse, he can’t let himself relax. He tries to let his shoulders fall, but then Wolfgang shifts and it starts all over again. 

They’ve arrived by the time he summons the will to ask where they’re going. 

Constanze swings herself out of the cab, skirts flopping majestically, and then does a very good impression of Wolfgang, head bowed and hand out to take Salieris. For the life of him, he actually blushes. 

He finds that they are in Domgasse, outside some higher end new money townhouse. Constanze and Wolfgang are waiting for him before the door. 

“Come on,” Constanze says. “Let's have cake.” 


End file.
